Home
by charredfeathers
Summary: He staggers, too tired to stand up on his feet properly, but too vexed to complain about anything out loud. So he just continues to walk. Sluggishly. But at least he’s moving. SasuSaku AU


**Home**

….

**Summary: **He staggers, too tired to stand up on his feet properly, but too vexed to complain about anything out loud. So he just continues to walk. Sluggishly. But at least he's moving. SasuSaku AU

**Author-person: **A little something for SasuSaku. Enjoy! :D

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto.

….

It's hot in the bar, he thinks, when he strikes another furious chord on his guitar.

The people on the dance floor are a mass of gyrating bodies... sweaty, drunk and high. Too wrapped up in their own sense of euphoria to bring themselves to care about anything else. They crash into one another, not really caring who stepped on who's foot or who sloshed beer on who's shirt. They're just moving, erratically, almost stupidly, and he finds himself thinking that they look a lot like frantic, panicking insects who are about to be crushed by the big, bad ant bully.

He can't help but think that they are willingly plunging into their deaths whenever he sees drunk girls being pulled into some shady corner of the bar, or drug dealers selling Mary Jane to minors from under their tables. It's like they're jumping one by one from the top of the highest skyscraper, or flinging themselves in front of a speeding train. It's suicide.

Then again, maybe not.

All they really want is some mindless fun, not pending death wishes... He contemplates on this for a short while and admits to himself that he can't blame them for wanting to escape reality even for one night… To escape from regretful idiosyncrasies, failed romances and the irritating mediocrity of everyday life. They're only human, he reminds himself, they are allowed some liberty.

Still, he feels less than amused when he sees them drinking themselves into oblivion, moving to his music. To the rhythm of steel strings, the banging of bass drums, and the nonsensical warbling of a talent-less lead. Some are starting to throw themselves onto the stage, supposedly worshipping them and their music. The women flaunt themselves at his feet, granting him more than what he really wants to see.

He cringes a little when they smile at him seductively and start coming up the stage. One even moves to latch herself around his waist and he can feel her well-endowed chest pressing against his back, her lips lingering on his cheek, and her deep voice inviting him in.

She starts wrapping her arms around his neck and he flinches at her touch... Her arms feel foreign, like they aren't supposed to be there in the first place. So he keeps on playing his Fender and ignores her advances. This woman is not _her_, he reminds himself and he feels his heart plummet to his stomach when she kisses the corner of his mouth.

When the last song comes to a close, he runs to the backstage immediately, stowing away his guitar and slinging it around his shoulder before bolting for the door.

The last thing he hears are the fading screams for an encore when the steel door finally shuts and the cold night air hits his face.

He is relieved.

.

.

.

He staggers, too tired to stand up on his feet properly, but too vexed to complain about anything out loud. So he just continues to walk. Sluggishly. But at least he's moving.

He thinks about _her_ on his way home. It's the only way he can keep going sometimes… and as cheesy as it might sound, he genuinely thinks that she's the only thing that makes him want to live in the fucked-up world they are in right now. He remembers how she socked him on the jaw for thinking such things, saying that he was being so damn pessimistic about the world and everything else in it.

Suddenly, he can see her bottle green eyes in his mind, full of mirth and warmth and everything he can't really express himself. He decides (for the billionth time) that she's all he'll ever need.

She's a beautiful thing, he says under his breath and remembers how she would always be the first one to show intimacy, how she would have to trace his jaw with her index finger before he finally decides to sweep in and kiss her hard on the mouth. He remembers how she clutches clumsily on the fabric of his shirt when he presses too hard, and how he likes to smirk against her lips when he knows she's out of breath and is trying hard to push herself off.

He remembers how she would flush and stutter after he pulls away and how she would bonk him hard on the head after he flashes her one of those irritating, condescending smirks of his.

He finds himself chuckling at the memory and tilts his head up to look at the starless sky.

He walks faster.

.

.

.

The light on the porch is still on when he arrives. His hand is in his pocket and the other is reaching out to knock on the door. He's forgotten his keys and she is bound to reproach him later for it. But that would be much, much later. She was going to let him sleep first, he was sure.

Sakura is at the door a few seconds later, donning her flannel pajamas and bunny slippers in all their blinding pink glory. He blinks at her and shakes his head wearily.

"Hi."

Before he realizes it, he's collapsed in her arms and she's laughing lightly at his tiredness. Sakura moves to help him in, but he just holds her close and buries his face at the crook of her neck.

"Let's stay like this for a while." He says, and she embraces him just like always.

Sasuke doesn't ignore her, or flinch at her touch. Her arms don't feel foreign, or awkward, and they are nothing like those of the woman in the bar... These arms are warm, familiar and comforting, and he knows that they're right where they're supposed to be.

Her arms feel like home.

….

**Author-person:** I am strangely exhausted after writing something this short. DX

Thank you for reading and please review.


End file.
